Behind Glass Bars
by SyriMoon
Summary: He couldn't leave him after death; even as he watched Cassian take his own life, Jizabel stayed behind. 120 yeas later a professor tests his love of history when he meets it face to face; a pale haired spirit who's developed an unhealthy obsesion with him
1. Prologue

This is a story I post only after much thought and contemplation. It's not a story I expect to be as well taken as some others, considering the heavy feature of an original character and the setting, but regardless, it's a story I and Suni have poured a lot into, especially myself as of late, being the one to transcribe the ideas to paper…er...screen. So, liked or not, I present.

Full summary- After his death on Judgement Day, Jizabel can't bare to move on. The afterlife terrifies him, and leaving Cassian is too painful a thought. But as Cassian falls apart and eventually takes his own life, Jizabel ends up left behind, alone for a century.

A history professor purchases the home Cassian grew up in, the home Jizabel followed him to. Intent on flipping the house and restoring its historical value, Down-to-earth Cooper is a perfect skeptic, never believing the ghost stories these homes have. Until, that is, he finds the oddities of the house unexplainable, and terrifying. Even more unsettleing, whatever is haunting these halls seems not to want him gone, as he originally thought, but to stay there with it. And frankly after a while, Cooper isn't sure who's more scared.

)o(

Jizabel had never been here before, to this tiny little town on the very outer reaches of London. Whether it was a village with its own name, or merely served as the city's border, he couldn't say. He didn't know the lives of the people behind the pretty but outdated glass windows, nor could he name any of the streets Cassian tread down. Certainly he didn't know his way through them.

Cassian did, though; it was obvious by the sure way his feet took him down the stone roads. He never even looked up, at least, not often. When he did, it wasn't to check landmarks or signs; no, he seemed to know this town better than Jizabel knew his own home. Instead, any flickering of dark eyes was only to check that no one else was crossing their way. Jizabel found his suspicious nature highly unusual for Cassian, let alone unnecessary; it was well past sundown, but nowhere near dawn. In a sleepy suburb such as this, he doubted anyone would be awake.

Still, Cassian kept close watch, taking only backstreets and seedy alleyways, though Jizabel suspected for a child who grew up as Cassian had, such places weren't unfamiliar.

Behind him, Cassian pulled a sizeable cart, the sort Jizabel often saw vendors and merchants use. He didn't know exactly what was inside, but he suspected it wasn't fine pottery or potatoes to be roasted. What he could see was a hodgepodge of russacks, a few expensive looking embroidered linens, and a good sized trunk.

For some reason, Jizabel got a sick feeling every time he glanced at the trunk. There was something inside of it that he knew he didn't want to see. He'd like to ask Cassian, could probably command him to tell, but Cassian didn't seem to be in a talking mood. He hadn't spoken a word to Jizabel the entire night.

Jizabel thought it had been maybe three hours since they'd set out, but time seemed very vague within the deepest hours of darkness. He guessed, though, that the night wasn't the only thing throwing him off.

The house they stopped before was a nice one, back behind the town itself, but it was obviously not in its prime. It stood very empty, with not a single of it's many windows left intact. Probably one of Cassian's new hangouts, since he'd been living on the streets. Was he planning on returning home now? Jizabel couldn't blame him. This was much nicer than Delilah. Of course, that option wasn't around anymore. For either of them.

Jizabel wondered fleetingly if Cassian would invite him to stay as well, but the idea never even had time to take root before he remembered that such a thing was now unnecessary. One had no real need for a bed to sleep in when they were well and dead.

He supposed he should have come upon this realization in a state of panic, but really it was more a bemused daze than anything so far. He'd come to like a fevered patient awaking from a long sleep, groggy, heavy, and being only slightly aware of the world outside dreams at first. He supposed he could recall Cassian carrying him from a collapsing building, and stealing a cart to run away, but he couldn't be sure if this was memory, or just his mind filing in the gaps on what he supposed happened. Truthfully, he first became truly aware on the long trip here on the mud soaked roads that took them to this town.

It was on this path that it occurred to him that he was dead. It didn't happen like a gaslight being lit, or a bell rung. Instead, it was something he seemed to instantly know, rather like how one never really had a memory of being told that fire burned, they just knew it. So it had crossed his mind that he couldn't feel the cobblestones he trod upon, nor the chilled evening breeze that forced Cassian under so many grungy layers.

Somehow, he was ok with that. He supposed he should have been filled with panic, but all things considered, this wasn't as bad as it could be. Being dead could certainly have its upside. In fact, he was more in shock over the final moments of life than his first hours of death.

Cassian…that man had returned for him. How long had he been planning? He'd been gone so many months…had he wanted to return all that time? Most importantly...what now?

He supposed his current condition of being deceased spared him from that particular decision, but it still left him puzzled. Why did Cassian come back? Well, not quite…he could see that Cassian had, somehow, formed a closeness to him, some sort of connection, one that even Jizabel felt, however faintly it had shown before this night. As Cassian held him, berated him for his foolishness (and a fool he was) he'd felt an almost painful longing, as though Cassian couldn't possibly hold him close enough, tight enough, or with enough tenderness. Though, having this feeling, that Cassian felt the same, seemed to make up for it. Cassian wanted to be there. No one was making him, he had nothing to gain by it, and it was certainly an unpleasant thing at the time, but he did it nonetheless.

Was it because he loved him? Jizabel wasn't sure he could fathom that. Not yet. He'd taken one last glance at Cassian before his world grew dark, and knew, instantly, that this is the man Alexis should have been. Or, more correctly, the man Jizabel should have followed as he'd followed Alexis. Cassians tender embrace, his soft shushing as he saw Jizabel's pain, those were the things he'd hoped Alexis would do, felt he ought to do but never did. Yet here was a man who had no need, acting as the father Jizabel had never knew.

He supposed with death came a sadness, that he would never get to feel that again. He followed Cassian now with the trust of a small child walking after their parent, for at the moment, Jizabel had never felt such an assured connection between that word and the person he could attribute it to. Mother, she left him, father was a monster, but Cassian was…how could it be that this man would show him such innocent affection, where his own parents had abandoned him?

He imagined the inside to be as chilled as the outside, but still and far more musty smelling. However, as Cassian lit an oil lamp, he could see it wasn't quite as gloomy as he'd thought. Though filled with broken bits and shambled furniture, it was cleaner than such a building should be, as though someone had been tending to the ruins. Through a cracked doorway, he could even see a makeshift bedroom, with two hay mattresses spread on the floor, waiting for guests. Somehow, the image of the two separate, secure beds gave him a sense of peace, affirming that Cassian's motives were not all selfish or wrongly ordered, that he expected nothing of that sort from Jizabel.

He couldn't he sure, with the dim light, but the books lining the far wall looked suspiciously like a few tomes he'd noticed he'd…misplaced…these past weeks. And were those his one spare pair of glasses on a makeshift nightstand?

Cassian didn't seem interested in going in there; in fact, as he neared it, he ducked his head lower still and hunched his shoulders, as though something about the room pained him. Could it be that now, there was only need for a single bed?

The house itself seemed to not be Cassian's current destination. Instead, he merely dumped the bags from the cart into the dining room, and rushed back outside to where the cart, and the trunk and linens still lay.

Carefully rooting through thick vines and brush, Cassian heaved the cart to the secluded backyard, so overgrown it was hard to tell where the property ended and the dense woods behind the house began.

Silently, marveling vaguely at how he needn't struggle as Cassian did, he followed, wondering if Cassian could see anything of him, a glimmer perhaps? He followed deep into the woods, a good ten minutes, till Cassian seemed to decide something. Cassian threw off the outer and most burdensome of his layers, including his hat, and for the first time, Jizabel could fully see his face. It was ashen, and seemed lined with worry, and exhaustion. At the same time, it was stoic, as though Cassian wasn't allowing himself to feel much of anything right now. And Jizabel had to wonder…was he truly mourning for him?

Out from the cart came the fancy linens. Where Cassian stole them, he had no idea, but they were beautiful. Heavy tablecloths, it looked, with delicate silk embroidery. Nothing Cassian could have bought, for sure.

Underneath them, aside from the trunk, lay a spade and a sizeable shovel, and Jizabel wasn't particularly pleased to see them unveiled. He already had a horrible suspicion on what lay in that trunk, but disbelief was shielding him from acknowledging it.

The spade broke the topsoil with ease, allowing for fairly easy digging, for someone with Cassian's strong, new body.

For hours he labored, panting and grunting with exertion but not seeming to truly tire. His task was surely an important one, as the pit he dug grew deeper and wider with each fling of the shovel.

The sky above the trees was starting to show the faintest pink stain before he finally climbed out, filthy and sweating but still not seeming to have any particular feeling. Instead, he merely strode over to the cart and, in turn, to the trunk lifting its creaking lid.

Where Cassian's movements before were all deliberate, strong, confident and powerful, now he moved much more softly. He held himself different, as though whatever he was scooping from the trunk was something very precious to him.

Jizabel didn't want to look, he really didn't. He wanted to fling his eyes closed and turn away, wishing he could pull himself from Cassian and flee, but it was too late. He wasn't quick enough to avoid seeing a long tumble of ash blonde hair draping over Cassian's arm. By then, he couldn't' force his eyes to avert.

He looked…horrible not like sleeping. Not at all. His skin had grown pale from the loss of blood, which now caked his hair. His clothes too were saturated with now brown fluid, not the pretty color Jizabel usually loved. At his throat he saw the true reason he'd had no chance to live; he hadn't realized how deeply he'd gashed, and his throat now actually hung somewhat open, as did his mouth and clouded eyes.

Finally he could see Cassians composure breaking, as he brushed stiff locks of hair from Jizabel's face. His own featured pinched as he did so.

"Damn it, Jizabel," he whispered hoarsely, as though his throat ached. "Of all the times of your life to finally have a fucking mind of your own!"

All the same, his actions were as soft as his voice was rough. From a deep pocket he withdrew a rag and a flask of water, and began to scrub at the dried blood. His chest was far too filthy to try, but his face and hands were tenderly wiped clean, closing his eyes as he did so.

Jizabel stood rooted where he was, trying to will himself to move. He wasn't quite as horrified as he would have thought, seeing his own corpse laid in front of him. Perhaps the mask of death was so familiar to him now, that even his own body couldn't disgust him. He saw beauty in death, after all. Not in the mangled corpse as much as just the stillness of a quiet heart.

The fancy linens were to serve as his shroud, he could now see, as Cassian laid him in the soft fabric, taking the most tender care on wrapping him. He folded his arms gently across his chest, and, as Jizabel watched, cupped his face and laid a soft kiss on his forehead. He could see his lips moving, quivering, as he pulled away and covered his face, but he could hear no words.

Jizabel knew, though. A day ago he wouldn't have believed his first guess, and even now he couldn't convince himself completely that Cassian would say such a thing, but somehow, he knew.

Though Cassian would not hear, though there was no one to hear him ever again, Jizabel responded anyway, in a whispers as soft as the wind. Because though he was sure the word didn't mean the same to him as it did to everyone else, because although he wasn't sure he'd ever truly felt it in his life, though he wasn't sure he could tell it from obsession or admiration or a need to be dependant on another, he liked to think he loved him, too.

)o(

All comments are loved.


	2. Vaccancy

)o(

William Cooper had heard it said before that smell was the most powerful of the senses when it came to recovering memories. He couldn't recall where, ironically enough; Discovery Channel, probably, or something in a textbook. Perhaps the stale coffee and Ramen smell of his freshman psychology class could remind him.

Whoever had first presented him with the theory couldn't know how right they were, each time Cooper purchased another new house. The moment he clicked the lock and swing the door open on usually (hopefully) creaking hinges, the smell of the home wafted around him, baring with it not only his own nostalgia, but the memoirs and keepsake moments of owners past. Each was unique; cigars and bootleg whiskey in one, or the overwhelming stench of cricket corpses and stale linens in another, but all mixed to form a similar concoction. Years of decay and abuse left all his treasured houses with the air of age, of inches of dust settled on mirrors and ottomans and curio cabinets. Sometimes he was lucky enough to find it mingled with the enticement of century-old pages…what hadn't been devoured by bookworms.

Each drifting scent always took him back to memories he could only have by proxy, to the lives of those that had lived here 50, 100, 200 years prior. Here in their kitchens, mothers or, for the wealthy, maids had tended stoves boiling over with soups and gravies and other savory foods. Bedrooms still often housed vanities and bed frames or a rotted mattress if he was that unfortunate. He never knew.

But that's what Cooper loved about his houses. He often bought them at auction, having little or no time at all to look around inside, if potential buyers were even allowed through the door pre-purchase. It was rather like a treasure hunt, digging the chest from the hot sand and anticipating what one might find inside. And he got to do it year after year, starting every summer between terms.

Though a history professor was his official career title, Coopers "other job" as he called it involved buying and fixing up old homes, restoring them to their historic splendor as accurately as he could manage. While he loved teaching, bringing back these little bits of history was his passion. They always ended up being sold to preservation societies of one sort or another, usually then fashioned into museums, but Cooper wasn't getting any younger, and he was starting to look for a house to finally just live in. it was far too early to tell if this was the one, of course (he was never one to propose marriage on a first date) but he always kept his eyes open.

He had to admit; this home had grandeur to it, as his favorites always did. From what little he knew, it was built in 1852; a beautiful Victorian. Or it had once been. Over the decades as both residents and fashion came and went, the home had undergone its share of remodels, most strikingly the nauseating color palette for the foyer that couldn't come from any other decade but the 70's.

Still, though, Cooper soaked up the buildings years as he stood in the center of the foyer, not having even dropped his luggage yet. Oh it was a sad sight. He remembered when he was little and he saw the black and white and sepia tone photographs on his grandmother's wall, and asked her when the world changed over to color.

"Obviously wasn't before 1852!" he chuckled to himself, as indeed, the soot and dirt lying over the room muted even the most vivid colors. Everything paled to shades of sickly gray, white and brown. Though considering the tiny glimpses of avocado green and buckwheat yellow that shone through where his hands brushed, perhaps this was a mercy on his sense of taste. God he hated the seventies.

Pity for the rest of the house though. The shelves and surfaces were almost barren of any actual objects, but the furniture itself was sure to be stunning once cleaned. He'd rummage sale the retro sofa and the cheap thrift store kitchen set to a buyer with more interests in that era, but the rest of it? Ohh it was his. Large pieces, built sturdy and far too heavy to have been easily moved. He swiped his hand over the middle shelf of a massive doublewide bookcase and admired the quality of the carvings once he was done having an asthmatic fit over the dust. Damn. He should know better by now.

It was always at this point that the sheer enormity of his job would begin to settle, not unlike the very soot he was stirring into his poor defenseless lungs. This was the home or an upper-class family, at least when it was built. It was three stories, an attic, a cellar, lord only knew how many rooms, closets, staircases, passages, cabinets, cupboards and windows would need his care. And cleaning was just the start! Then there was rot and termites to keep him and his bank account both on edge. This wouldn't be the first house where he'd awoke to some six legged critter scuttling in his hair.

His family back in Nebraska thought he was completely off it, had ever since he packed up and moved to England twenty years ago. His dear Mom still told acquaintances that this was "Just a phase," though she said it in a much kinder manner once that "phase" paid off her car.

Perhaps they're right, Cooper mused as he scooped his bags off the floor, noting only vaguely the deep scuffed tracks they left in the grimy carpet. It was a little mad, these projects of his. He did it all himself, save for gaslines and electrical work (he may not be the soundest of minds, but he wasn't completely psych ward material yet) and he'd had to console himself some evenings with a tall bottle of Captain Morgan and a marathon sleep to be ready to face the endless scrubbing, gutting and sanding that needed done.

It was always worth it in the end, though, to see such beautiful hones as they were meant to be. Hopefully this would be no different.

Being so early in the day, not even lunch, Cooper would have loved to dive right in and start mopping, but he'd tried that before and the results weren't in his favor. He was the sort to get overeager and jump right into something without so must as flicking a toe in to see if he'd scald himself. Patience was easy for him when it involved a second party; his nieces, his students, his beloved but high strung mother. But he had no patience for himself. A coworker had once described him like a little boy who'd just gotten a birthday invitation, and wanted to dress for the party right that moment.

As such, many of his houses had taken a lot more work than needed. His first, he'd spent four hours sweeping all the hardwood floors, corner to corner, whisking bunnies out of the dark corners where they procreated like…well…bunnies, only to lok around beaming and realize he hadn't dusted a single shelf before hand. All his hard work for nothing as the dirt landed right back on his beautiful floor.

Oh yes, it was a Captain Morgan night.

So despite his inner nine year old wanting to either go straight up to the attic to sift through storage or draw out floor layouts, it was not the time for such fun extras…besides, he'd drawn up 16 on the train ride here already…

Somewhere between childish excitement and his Victoriphilia, there was somehow enough room to squeee in a little rational thought, once he kicked a few boxes of useless jeopardy knowledge and one recipe for bratwurst aside. It was a time for work, with more than enough time for play later.

…though surely a self tour couldn't hurt. He had to become familiar with his new habitat after all. For safety reasons. Needed to find a room to sleep in. And if he somehow got lost and ended up having to search through closets of old clothes to find his way back out, that was a risk he'd just have to take.

Cooper felt his body relax and ease as he wandered the halls, a mercy after the cramped and jarring train he took clear from the other side of London. Though his neck cramped and ached from the awkward angle he'd found himself asleep in, it seemed to loosen and ease as he drank in his new surroundings. It was a natural high for him, really. Perhaps this is why he never married…he couldn't image most women sharing his passion for history.

By the time he reached the second story, he knew already that he'd be in need of a bath soon. Just the tiny vibrations of his footfalls on the steps were enough to unsettle a few decades of dust and dead insects from the molding and onto his clothes. He was sure if he had a mirror he would find himself looking quite ghastly, his already mousy brown hair dulled to an unappealing gray and adding twenty years to his appearance. Coupled with the wear it put on his jeans and button-up, he looked rather like he went with the house, a thought that curled the corners of his mouth in delight. Oh he often wished…

As he passed each room, his mind filled with ideas, as though his brain was little more than an artists tablet, paint and graphite and putty all swirling around to recreate what he knew each bit of space should look like. This was a child's room, he was sure, while the grand view out these bay windows over there indicated it was for the Master and Mistress of the house. He wondered vaguely if he'd find the servants quarters intact or if they as well had been renovated to serve a practical purpose. Plenty of time to find out, he supposed.

)o(

Sounds echoed through the corridors, pretty sounds, lovely sounds. Sounds so pleasing to hear. Not the sounds of the floorboards creaking or pipes falling to bits. No it was not the rhythms of home that could be heard, those were well worn and familiar. The timber and metal and granite that formed this space had its own song to sing, a heartbeat even, broken windows letting wind whistle in a thrum through its veins. This was not it's breathing, not its groaning or wheeng and sounds of sleep.

The word "Footsteps" floated through fleetingly, but one could not be sure. Words meant so very little. Almost no meaning. Not now. Not after so long.

Words were pretty though, if one could recall what they sounded like. Footsteps too were a lovely sound, if they were footsteps. Perhaps they weren't. One couldn't be sure, not after so long.

Regardless, they were a lovely sound. One to savor again sometimes, after more sleep.

)o(

"No, I do NOT have my address wrong," Cooper struggled to not raise his voice into the phone. It wasn't easy; even his own well of patience could only go so far before running dry. And few things tried him more than playing the run-around with spools of red tape.

He was pacing in his kitchen, which could scarcely be recognized as such currently, and had been on his cell phone for the last two hours trying to contract an electrician, a contractor and to contact the city to talk about having the gas and electricity turned back on. Once again, he underestimated how much work this task would be, and assumed he could leave it for once he moved in. bad mistake.

He half listened to the secretary ramble on something about taking at least a week for wires to be routed to his home before he started pounding his brow against the doorframe. He knew this story. It was often true; the homes he occupied were often long abandoned and settled either in ghettos or simply the middle of nowhere, and logically speaking it would take some extra effort to restore it with a few creature comforts. But too often it was a bullshit excuse to hide how cowardly full grown men could be. Cooper knew the real reason he often had to flip through the local phone book twice before finding someone to wire his house; ghosts.

Or more rather, nonsense ghost stories any home built before 1950 seemed to come with; standard, like air conditioning in a Chevy.

Every job had its aggravating downfalls, and for Cooper tales of hauntings and specters did it for him. Each house had its own version of the same generic gut-twister; some poor man, woman or child met their death through suicide, tragic accident or passion-fueled murder, and their restless spirit clung to the local run-down Edwardian manor, renovated history museum or bed and breakfast.

He wished they'd at least get creative. If he was going to laugh at old wives tales, it might as well be for a better reason than just skepticism. Well, and seeing men half his age and twice his weight scream like middle school girls every time someone in the house closed a door. Honestly, how could some people take themselves seriously every morning?

He scratched irritably at his five o clock shadow and began to think his time on the phone would be better used ordering Chinese take out.

"Listen, I need to have someone out here Monday morning. I'm already living here and I'd like to bathe with something that doesn't come out of a plastic bot- yes, I just said I am…Oh it's decapitated this time, that's splendid. Haven't seen one of those since I was living in the states…yes…yes, and how does it tell me to get out if it has no head? Uh huh…thought so. Monday morning it is then?...yes, I'll hold."

And he immediately hung up, snapping his phone closed and suppressing the urge to chuck it cross the kitchen. With no lights, air conditioning or running water, he couldn't afford to loose his one tie to the twenty-first century. As much as he longed for and admired the past, now was not the time to mimic it.

Instead, he simply turned the page in the directory and dialed up another local company.

2 hours, 2 cans of Pepsi and a dozen phone calls later he finally found someone willing to work on his house. He never thought he'd be grateful to hear someone call his place of residence a shithole slum, but it was a nice change after an afternoon of hearing it referred to as haunted, creepy and demonic.

He sighed with relief as he checked "wiring" out of his notebook. Ah, notebooks. He loved them almost as much as history books. There was something so charming about a simple spiral pad of paper, all blank and empty and waiting to be filled up. They were quite receptive to new ideas, and rarely argued or fussed about what sort of thoughts you shared with them. Not contrary creatures, notebooks.

He had a green storage tote steadily becoming filled with them. He had one or two for every house he renovated. The opening pages were always filled with technicalities; cost list, budgets, dimensions of the house; really just the nuts and bolts of flipping. It was deeper into their pages where things got interesting. Each had a catalogue of the items he'd found, sold or kept. Solid gold pocket watches, portraits so old even their frames were dropping to pieces. Jewelry boxes carved from ivory, sometimes with tiny keepsakes still stored inside. Letters were always his favorite to find, and many notebooks had photocopied printouts of what he'd discovered.

But so far in this journal he had only his checklist, budget, estimated profit and the brief history he knew. He flipped to the first page, looking over it.

The home had been built some 150 plus years ago and housed a single family for only a short time; the family of five had moved very suddenly in the late 70's, clear out of England. After that it housed a much grander family of over a dozen, and had thus been expanded.

The history was disappointingly dull to Cooper. Bought by the city in 1910. rented or later bought by a family in 1912, 1920, 1953 and finally a single co ed in 1977.

"How dull," Cooper said with remorse as he closed the book. He preferred more colorful weary (and hungry) he gave his hair another ruffle to dislodge the last dregs of cobweb, polished his silver-framed glasses on the last clean spot on his shirt and grabbed his wallet, intent on taking a walk for pizza.

As he walked through the great room, he paused. Though he didn't believe in spirits any more than he did the tooth fairy, he could understand why some would be so ready to call this place a home for lost souls. He never really got use to how quiet, how still these places were the first night. Everything shrouded in shadows and age, rooms usually empty, windows letting in ghoulish moans of wind, whipping the makeshift curtains…it could give anyone the willies. It wasn't the most comforting thing to wake up to in the middle of the night.

Cooper himself always found it more of a sad stillness than frightening. It was lonesome in this house, not for lack of company, for he desired little, but just overwhelming with the realization that there was no one left who could truly call this place home.

He looked up at the high vaulted ceiling, and the iron chandelier that still hung from it. Who forged it? Who hung it? Who polished these banisters and played on this hearth? To someone, to a family, this was their fortress, their shelter, and to see it fall to such ruins was melancholy. Ruins always filled him with a sense of beautiful unease, for all too soon it would be the home he'd grown in that would find itself desolate and left to rot. The schools he attended might someday he nothing but overturned desks and graffiti walls.

People often scoffed when he tries to share this bit of poetry with them, usually, he noted, out of unease. People of today, like all people, liked to think of themselves as permanent, important and unmoving. Their worlds would never fall, their landmarks would never rust from neglect and abandonment. But he always reminded them that's what every generation thought.

It unsettled him, but didn't frighten him. He'd be long dead before any disaster, mass migration or cataclysm rendered his world to that of a ghost town. He just hoped when it did happen, perhaps someone would care about his story as much as he cared about those who'd gone before him.

)o(

Footsteps again. Or was it footsteps still? When sleep came to call, time would always take its leave. They didn't get along very well, see. Sleep was bossy and insecure and wanted attention all on its self, with no care for time.

Footsteps still and then…silence. Familiarity so known that the previous noise was forgotten almost as soon as it stopped, as though it were nothing more but a fleeting daydream, a cat nap in summer heat.

Couldn't be though. Far too cold. Always cold.

He'd like to hear the footsteps again.

)o(

This is a work of fiction written by me and co created by my friend Suni.

Please drop a review. I would much appreciate any word you have

-Syri.


	3. Attics and Basements are Scary Places

The great thing about such cavernous, empty houses (well, as though there was only one!) was the acoustics. In the early stages of each restoration it was nice to be able to pop his iPod into a set of speakers, crank the level to an audiologists nightmare and be able to enjoy his music through most of the house. Not having to set up his stereo or bother with catching his headphone wires on every knob and knuckle was a treat he'd loose once the house became adorned with the appropriate draperies and linens and furniture. Lovely to look at, but a real sound sucker.

Cooper enjoyed another bite of his pizza as he listened; Hawaiian, but not that it mattered, with the Biblical flood of garlic sauce he used to drown his dinner. Just another advantage to his mostly solitary life; no one to haggle him about his queer eating habits, no matter what it did to his breath.

He popped the last bite of crust into his mouth and savored it, reclining into the wall behind him. Having wanted a proper place to have his supper, he'd first blitzkrieged the kitchen and dining room, spending the afternoon with his shop broom and swifer, the right-hand men that usually lived at his main storage locker in town.

The scent of roast ham and garlic mingled…interestingly with lemon Pledge, but he'd grown use to the smell of his day one tradition. On a built in shelf across the room his speakers filled the warm evening with a highly tuned synthesizer, a comforting sound so distinctly 80's. Surrounded by a blend of his modern preferences and historic tastes, Cooper felt as much home in this filthy manor as he did in the Midwest.

Despite the noise, there was peace.

It wasn't that Cooper was a hermit, or even anti-social. He had made his share of friends this side of the pond, and even casually dated every few weekends. He looked forward to travelling back home every Christmas to enjoy a week of food, fruitcake and family bonding. Even among his students, some up to twenty years younger than him, he was lively and social. Yes, company was nice, but he felt a desire for it only in small, isolated instances. A night playing pool and telling increasingly raunchy (and increasingly fabricated) stories with his friends, and he could return to his mostly solitary life content for the week. He just enjoyed the quiet, the calm days he had before having to return to school, and always had. Often times he'd sleep till noon or later and stay up till 6 am to work in the most still hours God had to offer him.

He chuckled to himself as he broke down the greasy pizza box. Up at all hours and sleeping when the superstitious neighbor kids came to spy on him. The fact that he'd leave each house with more fodder for their ghost stories gave him a somewhat satisfied feeling. He hadn't realized it the first few, but once he became aware of what it must look like, a foreign man purchasing the local haunt, lights on at midnight, strange sounds…no wonder people were so afraid of these places!

Peering outside the still curtainless windows, Cooper could see the faintest dusting of pink still holding fast to the horizon. Still so early, but his body begged for sleep. Pushing 40, he wasn't exactly youthful Gray was cropping up in his hair in patches now, and he knew all the sawing, hauling and heavy lifting he did was all that stood between him and a beer belly. Though despite his advancement towards middle age, for tonight Cooper would blame his weariness on the long travel of the day.

For now, he would sleep on a mattress topper and a sleeping bag; honestly, people must think he was a lost hiker on the train here, with all that rolled atop his bulbous backpack. He scribbled in his journal, cleaned his teeth with bottled water and clicked off his battery light and music, allowing sleep to claim him easily.

And finally, truly, there was peace.

This is how he preferred it.

This one in his home, it was a noisy thing. Heavy footfalls echoed up and down every flight of stairs and seemed to be drawn to only the squeakiest of loose floorboards. The way it barged through the home, all awkward elbows and thumping cupboard doors!

The noise it played was nearly as unbearable, some unnatural screeching and twanging that would be incomprehensible as music were it not for the vague rhythmic time it kept. He could still feel the unsettling vibrations plaguing the air. It was rough, violent, and wholly uncomfortable. The entire feel of the house was changing.

He shouldn't be surprised though, and truly he wasn't. Nor was he much riled. They came at times, sometimes seldom and sometimes one after another. A few brought their belongings as though intending to take up residence here, though that never lasted long. But most as of late came baring nothing but odd looking lanterns and what may well be the strangest looking cameras he'd ever laid eyes upon. These youngest visitors never lasted till morning's light before they ran shrieking like children half their already small ages.

He drifted. He hadn't the strength to travel much on his own accord. He really didn't have the need lately. His sanctuary was all he needed, a swaddling cloak of pitch and soundless sleep.

He wished to sleep again. The thoughtless ease of it drew him back so appealingly, but he knew he wouldn't find it now. Not now that he was drifting, weightless, through the calm currents blowing through the windows and wall cracks. And certainly not with this visitor caught in his own slumber. Though he didn't dream anymore, this man lying on his kitchen floor was more captivating than anything that happened while asleep.

He seemed clever enough to find refuge in a corner free of flowing air and cold drafts; he stilled once he drew near the stranger, no wind to billow him about. Even then his station there was tenuous at best. He was made of such little substance and so little existence even that he had a tendency to just sort of…evaporate, he supposed. Simply fade into darkness for a time before waking back up in his favorite spaces and corners, often too weak to even fancy another "stroll".

Hoping this would not be the case at present, he kept his eyes trained on this man, glad that he could still identify him by gender. Often it was so hard to tell anymore. It seemed as though everyone looked the same to him; well, what scantily few people he did see. No, he was definitely male, looking perhaps a decade older than himself. A man of modest build and unremarkable height, he wasn't much of anything to look at, though he wasn't altogether a bother to look at. His dark hair brushed against his temples messily, at an awkward length he thought either needed a trim or to grow out a good deal.

So much more of the same. Unusual haircut, the most curious possessions scattered about in garish colors and made from things he couldn't identify, all tossed around with food he had no name for. More of the uncomfortable crackle in the air; how he hated the nervous energy that outsiders brought into his calm little world! He felt it as though he was part of the very current it flowed through, which he assumed he may well be. Sleep was next to impossible, with these changes just begging for his attention.

He snored, and shuffled in an otherwise calm sleep. Despite all the discomfort he carried around him, something was different with this one. Where others had smuggled themselves in under the cover of night or at least at its cusp, here this man sauntered in broad daylight, seeming to have no qualms about making himself a trespasser. Yet really, if he was to be honest (and honesty meant little to him after all this time) he would admit that though his brazenness was unwelcome, otherwise he had kept very neatly to his own business. Unlike the children who tore hellacious from room to room, seeking something, this one simply swept and scrubbed and wrung and dusted as though he were a maid.

He had no use for a tidy house, but he supposed if it contented him, it would be no harm. Surely he would leave soon as everyone did…but as he unrolled an odd sort of coverlet and crawled inside, he could see that wouldn't be the case, at least not presently.

He pursed his lips in what might have been a scowl if he tried; he looked like he was getting comfortable.

He was still bemusing the odd intentions of this older man as the shadows and summer winds swept forward to cradle him, luring back into the crevices and cracks where he belonged, and his own sleep overtook him before he could ponder another thought.

)o(

A week passed quickly, Coopers always-busy hands rarely having a spare moment to check the time. Most days the only clock he encountered was not the one around his wrist but his internal clock, prompting him when to have lunch, when to sleep and when he absolutely must wash something for the sake of human decency. Otherwise, he had little marker for the days passing. His tired brown eyes widened with a taste of shock when his phone informed him politely that it was already Thursday.

No wonder his family was always surprised he even turned up for holidays. The way he goes, they probably only vaguely wondered half the time if he was even still alive.

Well, he was. He was aching, starved and down to his last pair of socks, but he was alive and grinning with satisfaction for the end of his most productive day yet. Better yet, he had running water, a new heating tank and electricity in six rooms. His men-for-hire may have been a mixed back of candy-asses and overly curious busybodies, but at least they were eager to work (though whether they were eager to get here and see such a famous place up close, or eager to get the fuck out and run home crying, he wasn't sure. Nor did he care much, really, so long as he finally got a hot shower.)

He groaned appreciatively at just the thought. He hadn't had a real bath in 8 days! As was part of the downfall of moving into houses usually occupied by hobos; one often had to give up such luxuries as daily hygiene for a while. Every time he always was questioned why he didn't simply wait until after the house was wired and watered, but it was a simple concept. He would always ask the men, in return, if they would rather crawl around with the spiders, soot and inch of dust, or if they'd prefer cleaner work environment. That usually settled it. Despite the drawbacks, it was truly more convenient to have a quick move in, especially considering the cost of travel from his apartment.

Another groan, this time in a somewhat comedic loss. He sometimes missed his little apartment, with the too-low ceilings and odd kitchen appliances and bathroom fixtures. The Brits were weird, that's all he could say, but it had been home to him for almost 20 years now. Well…on and off.

This was home now, till he got it painted and primped and sold. And right now home was finally free of toolboxes and cussing men.

With a rather flaming flourish, Cooper crossed "waterline" off of his notebook list, satisfied to know the final major I-can't-do-this-on-my-own project was out of the way. He'd need a bath later, considering his current plans.

He smiled, rubbing his stubble contemplatively as he stared toward the ceiling; it was finally time to tackle the attic.

He'd discovered the doorway to the uppermost level in a truly Narnian fashion, poking around the back of a guest rooms closet. By the awkward and cheep paneling, he'd guess it had once been surely a back part of the walkway that had been remodeled to give the floor more living space, and they deemed the attic uneeded. Not too uncommon, really, considering he expected to find it used as little more than storage.

From his cooler (How he longed for a fridge!) he grabbed a bottled water and the flashlight from his ragtag nightstand. He also pocketed a Swiss knife, dust rag and spare batteries, being far too lazy at present to be bothered going downstairs for more.

As he climbed the main staircase, the half rotted boards once again threatened to break way beneath his feet, or at least irritate him into a good oiling. He couldn't imagine the attic steps could be in any better repair.

True to form, as he opened the door he had serious second thoughts about risking his spinal cord on those steps. They looked precariously solid, though he couldn't be for sure with the cricket graveyard it was housing. The little vermin acted like a leggy little carpet and Cooper really didn't care to hear them snapping underfoot. He wasn't especially fond of bugs, but he'd developed a sort of tolerance to his constant room mates. Hadn't bought a house yet that didn't come complete with his own party of termites or spiders. Still, he cringed as he tip toed up the stairs, trying to keep to the surely sturdier edges near the walls, and prayed if the planks gave way underneath him, than the banister (and his reflexes) were both in better shape.

He toed aside cricket corpses, both to get the little vermin out of his path and to get a look at the wood underneath, to spot mold before he sank into it. Dry and brittle bodies made hardly a sound as they tottered over the edge of each step, but the soft scuttling and scraping was enough to bring a sickly tinge to the back of Cooper's throat.

"At least they're not alive," he told himself steadily as he reached the crest of the staircase. It was all he could do to not imagine the massacre he'd just passed all resurrecting into hopping, chirping little insecti-zombies.

Definitely spending too much time listening to the locals, he thought, and tried to put bugs from his mind.

He gave a final shudder and prayed that this journey into nightmare fuel would be worth it. Too many times, he thought as he fumbled with the catch-all key ring the realtor had given him far too eagerly last weak, have I dug through hot as hell attics and not have a single thing to show for it.

The first key failed to fit the slot, no matter which way he turned it, so he selected a smaller one next.

He had a right to be a little perturbed at the lack tangible reward; as much as he loved preservation and restoration, it wasn't a safe job, especially once he got back to this era. Wallpaper and paints just coated with lead and arsenic were but the start of his health-hazard woes. Fabric dyes were saturated in all sorts of poisons and chemicals to produce a desired vibrancy, and more added to keep them colored as such. Coupled with the gas fumes and backwater medical knowledge, and he was often surprised anyone lived past childhood. Such a dangerous and harsh time to live.

So why did he love it so…?

..All the same, the risks in this particular home were low, thanks to the decades of updating done before he ever set foot in London. No need for haz-mat suits this time, he thought with a grin as he rug for another key.

CLUNK. Finally, the fourth key and a little elbow grease was what was needed to move the lock, though he could hear the grinding of dirt (and probably more bugs) trapped in the mechanics. Great, more detailing. He made a note to stock up on Q-tips.

'And fans!' he added mentally with a grimace; the heat from the attic swamped him as the heavy door lurched open, and he swore he could already feel it beading on his brown and the back of his neck. English Summers may not be the heat waves of his childhood, but after a more familiar English winter, it was still scorching.

Off came his shirt the moment he stepped in, the faded blue number tossed over a lampshade to be dealt with later; his t shirt was much cooler and more suited to filthy attic work.

He stood in the center of the deeply sloping room and took a few minutes to survey, his body already sending up warning aches at the work soon to come. Scores of boxes lined every wall so deeply that he couldn't even say what the walls looked like; the only paneling to be seen was on the angled ceilings, and even those were hard to make out through the soot. The fact that all five windows were boarded up and let only the narrowest streams of sunlight through wasn't of any help either.

With only a few moments of abuse, his flashlight sparked to life, filling the dim room with a bright yet acidic yellow light. He'd have to unbind the windows if he was to properly see what he was sorting…but he'd have to dig to them first.

Coopers whole demeanor softened as he turned a slow circle and let the light wash across each surface he neared. SO many little wooden crates mixed in with heavy cardboard boxes, all jammed up against the walls. What little gaps and space couldn't be filled where closed up with jewelry boxes and rolled carpets, headboards, curtain rods and a junk shop's supply of picture frames, most of them mournfully empty. It was like a masterfully played game of Tetris, where the L's all appeared at the perfect moments.

His beam skitted upwards, bringing candelabras into the light, festooned with spider webs like gauze, solidifying more than ever the atmosphere of a Halloween mansion. Even higher the flashlight crept, and he spied the rotted remains of window valances and shutter hinges among the cheap plywood covers, with a gasolier crowned the room in a rusted guild that had lost so much of its grandeur.

Cooper was most definitely, certainly, in his happy place.

A fast jog downstairs to search for his toolbox and a few electric lanterns, and grab another water and he was ready to make a date with the attic. He liked his little reproduction lanterns; they were much brighter than he would expect of the kerosene equivalent it was mimicking, but still cast an amber glow, a softened and comforting light with none of the harshness of fluorescent 100 watters. They were hung from their hooks in the rafters and set on small tables, and created the perfect ambiance for a treasure hunt; by the time he managed to reach the windows, it would be too late in the day for the weakened sunlight to provide much illumination to the dim corners.

So he began hauling the nearest boxes down into the brightest collection of light, his ever-ready pen knife slicing through duct tape and string far easier than his fingernails could. He was disappointed, but not too surprised, when one after another turned up nothing but t shirts and team jerseys and boxers and other such cheaply made clothing, so old and caked with dirt that donating them would have been an insult to the destitute. Hell, most of these he wouldn't even use for rags.

Yet more clouds of dust billowed into the air as he tossed one garment after another over his shoulder to collect in an abandoned corner, to be thrown out when he got around to hauling up a trash bag. The few that would serve the higher calling of chair polisher or floor buffer were sent to live in a now empty box.

Cooper expected this really, from a house that had seen its share of more recent tenants. He was sure that among the remaining parcels he would find sneakers, hooded jackets and some sort of horribly outdated home décor. The last renter had left mid seventies (screaming for her life, the rumors said) and left everything she owned, refusing to go back for it. Her boyfriend, he'd been told, had been sent in to retrieve her necessities, but so much had been left as a happy bonus for whoever next purchased this property.

However, he well knew that there had been no one to benefit from the grad students mod couch and beanbag chairs except the mice that has surely made comfy nests among the foam pellets. The house had been boarded up, citing "necessary repairs" that were never completed, and thus was how Cooper was finding it. While many rooms had a mournful and eerie sense of abandonment, the majority had been at least haphazardly packed away. He shuddered to think about what random, personal effects he could find in a box. Women's razors, foot powder, fetish costumes; all had been hiding in houses he'd hutted, surely the result of the Remove Drawer, Dump Into Box method of storage.

Fortunately for Cooper and his sensibilities about finding personal lubricants stuffed in socks, someone seemed to have at least takes time to gather what they wanted. Six boxes in and he had a wonderful collection of nothing, with a bit of worthless junk thrown in.

Both his floorboards and his knees creaked as Cooper hunched back on his ankles; the attic was stifling hot as the late afternoon sun beat down on the roof. Even his waterbottles were beginning to loose their frost. He guzzled half down all the same, relishing anything wet down his pipe, and splashed a palmful through his hair.

Although he always expected the worst, it was still frustrating to think that such a lovely old house might not have any, well…trinkets. Cooper liked trinkets! Porcelains and fern prints and brooches were much easier to collect that sideboards and armoires; the space was a total killer. And besides, what he didn't care to keep would simply return money in his pocket and a very merry Christmas.

He took another swallow and started an internal pep talk. He was less than a dozen boxes through at least fifty, and anything truly worth finding would be in the back, or more likely, those trunks!

His knife was soon sticky with eroded tape gunk and bug remains, giving his new rags a temporary mission in life, as he sliced through box after box. He actually chuckled with relief when he unpacked a cotton candy circle skirt, a truly nauseating color but distinctively fifties. The clock was going further! And there, a dated set of nightgowns, an assortment of retro (and naturally hideous, in his opinion) glasses, shoes and scarves; worth a bit, perhaps, and of zero interest to himself. Perhaps the next box…or the next…

He squealed like a preteen when he uncovered the phonograph, for it was a handsome sight indeed. He'd known what it was the moment he saw its ghostly form outlined under the sheet it was draped with, the large tulip bell completely unmistakable. He brought the linen up carefully, not wanting to knock his discovery crashing onto the floor.

It was a beauty. The wood was worn and had lost most of its stain, but the simple, sturdy carvings on it's box remained for the most part. The brass horn was tinged with brown stain, a tarnish he was instantly sure he could polish out with time. With building excitement, he forgot everything else in the attic. He used the most cautious touch to pull back the arm, listening to creaking and grinding from the inevitable rust and wasn't disappointed. Q tips would be his friend here.

Cooper instantly began to look for some indication of who crafted this treasure; a Victor, no doubt, but it was so externally wore he couldn't be sure of the model. No Victrola, not with that prominent funnel. All the same, an expert could surely put a name to the machine. And a price, though with a smile Cooper shook his head, not sure if he's pawn this one. He blew the dirt gently from the disc set but only managed to displace a loose layer. If he could fix it into working order, he may not be able to part with it.

This, he thought to himself as he carried the music machine to an out of the way corner, is definitely what I was hoping for.

)o(

He couldn't say for how long he slept. Did it matter, really? He recalled that at one time he'd mark his slumber with hours, with morning sun and evening stars, or a mid day heat if he was remarkably fortunate. Now though sleep wasn't what it had once been to him. He didn't drift off out of necessity, nor for pleasure. Instead, it just…was. He never felt to tug of drowsiness prompting him to settle, but sort of just fell to unconsciousness. Light or dark, those were his only markers, and right now the sun was spilling through the gaps in the4 attic walls, but very weakly; the lanterns strung across the room provided more light than did the sun.

The lanterns were odd but bewitching. They glowed with no candle, as though electric, but possessed no cord! Oil, he initially thought, or kerosene, but there was no flame whatsoever.

Ah, he couldn't bring himself to invest much interest in lanterns, not with That Man making such a fuss. He couldn't recall any of the others tearing through boxes and cupboards with as much vigor as this one, and he wondered vaguely what it was that he was searching for. There was very little of value here that he could recall, and what did have nice prices was the furniture, mostly.

Yet here he was, digging through piles of distasteful smocks and rags; he was rather pleased to see that his guest seemed as offended by those hideous articles as he himself was. Servants clothing wasn't even as ill-made! Surely they must be costumes, to play act as peasants. Foreign peasants with bad taste. French, perhaps.

He thought lightly about the warm sun outside, and wondered how long he'd napped, and more pressing, how long this man had been rummaging through his home. Hell, living in his home. A dozen times longer than the rest, he was sure, though he could almost recall longer stays, but those recollections were muddied and dull and not worth probing. With little sense of time came little care for its passing; what happened before seemed so long ago, and he couldn't say he had much mind for what was yet to come. All that mattered was this strange and determined visitor, and this growing fascination with his peculiar mannerisms.

He couldn't' say he was particularly interested in him. No, it was more the fact that he was there that had his attention, rather than anything specific about him. While it was true that something about him was particularly unique, he didn't really care. Unique was just another word that had lost its meaning. In a sense, everyone was unique to him; he, who passed light and dark, cycle after cycle, in the quiet shell of this house.

To one who existed so long in the darkness, every ray of light was dawn.

)o(

Another chapter down. I don't know if anyone is actually reading this, but I would love any sort of feedback, even just to pop in and say you've been following.

Lottsa love,

Syri


	4. Pretty Little Melodies

Cooper's evening faded seamlessly into night, and finally into the earliest hours of the morning, but the professor paid little notice to the time. The dial of his watch wasn't as important as the years within these trunks, a much more fascinating time to mind than 12:02. What hour it was outside mattered very little to him as he unearthed one treasure after another. The phonograph was only the start of his finds; once he had the delicate contraption safely tucked away in a corner, he started on the boxes it had shielded with gusto, knowing now that he was definitely getting to the meat of the attic. True to his instincts, a velvet lined hatbox high on a stack nestled within its soft interior a ladies riding hat. The plume was bent but fixable.

With a smile, and delicate hands, he admired the caps fine craftsmanship and mentally calculated whether or not this was a restoration he could tackle on his own. It would require such gentle cleaning, probably with chemicals he didn't possess. Definitely a professionals job.

The men's morning coat he found next just needed a few buttons, though, and a few seams mending on the Sunday dress. Box after box opened to lovely clothes, slippers, hand stiched wall scrolls, watercolors and gloves. Still more contained infant's gowns, bonnets with more ruffles than their mothers own skirts and the tiniest little girl's frocks. A family surely had been living here, not long before the turn of the century by the looks of these fashions.

Cooper neither noticed nor minded the thick smog the attic was now harboring. He was in his happy place, without a doubt, as he delved further towards the wall he knew had to be close. He had to dig past a dressmakers dummy to get there though, plus a tin of buttons, and a music box that played no music. He soon had a brass cornered trunk full of books, diaries and letters to spend a weekend devouring, as well as a renewed and familiar sense that he was, indeed, the luckiest bastard in Britain. He was sure through another's eyes he would look more like the country's biggest creep, what with single him spending a night alone digging through women's bloomers and corsets, but that perception rather tickled him actually. How easily his hobby could be tweaked through the right perception and look more like behavior common to stalkers

He couldn't really spare much emotion to care, though. He never had. Cooper had always been the sort to just play his own damn kazoo. No other sort of man could just pack up his life, move to another continent and live his somewhat unorthodox dream relatively solo. Sure, he had his friends and students, colleagues he greatly enjoyed being around, but they were privy only to his public life. Apart from his closest family, his private life truly was…private.

It was a testiment to his content personality that he scarcely grew lonely in these great, empty houses. Loneliness didn't haunt him like the ghosts so many claimed he lived with; even when it did, it was not a personal emotion. The loneliness Cooper often felt was a collective one, and not unfamiliar. He could feel his emotions flirting with it right now.

Though he found such delight in these little turn of the century relics, he couldn't deny the overpowering sense of loss they held. To most people he supposed such things as what he held were nothing more than footnotes in history books, or fodder for costume balls. They were novelties, a part of history to perhaps model for its décor, or architecture, but suitable for no other mimicry. After all, this was such a "dark" time in history to most, backwards and prudent and laughably unenlightened. To Cooper, though? It was something so different.

A tall, narrow box was more than enough to distract him from the arms of melancholia. It bore such an unusual shape, in comparison to the others, that his interest was more than piqued. It was made from simple pine and held no decoration, but the watertight sealant it was stained with showed it must harbor something of value.

And oooh did it. Once the latch came undone with a creak, he found the flat box to be full of photographs, and he was positively beside himself. For someone who longed desperately for a connection to the 19th century, few things built a bridge as sound as photographs.

With the utmost care, he slipped the small stack from the box, lying them atop the trunk he'd just rummaged through. There were maybe a dozen prints, seemingly in decent shape for the most part. The first was Edwardian, of a very pretty middle class woman; from what he knew about the homes history, she was probably the wife of whoever first owned the house after it was claimed by the city. He doubted he'd find any images of the residents just prior to her, but who could say? He'd found a picture of a prostitute before.

He sat the image down delicately next to him, to study the next. He placed the mother and child at perhaps the 1870's or early 80's, judging mostly by the mothers dress, but the faded ink eroded many of the details. The child was a boy by his guess, but not being yet breeched it was difficult to tell. All small children of the time wore gown and frills. Funny, though. He looked old enough for short trousers.

The family portrait he found was the largest, and certainly had been the pride of the drawing room. Mid Victorian, 60's at earliest, and probably the builders of this home.

He sighed peacefully as he studied each little member of the family, the youngest a baby sleeping in his mothers arms.. Almost easy to forget they were dirt poor and living well above their means. He wondered how their clothing would show their wear in person, if those colors were as starched and white as the grainy photograph would present. He doubted it.

He flipped to the next, a seated portrait of a handsome man, perhaps 20, with an older gentleman behind him. The younger had pale hair, much longer than was in fashion for...what…late 80's? early 90's? Somewhere in that area. Pity their faces always looked so somber and pinched; he would have likely been rather a charmer with a smile.

Cooper cross-referenced to the family portrait; two were fair haired, and he wondered which of the younger boys grew into this one. Whoever it was had obviously at least attempted to surmount his upbringing; this wasn't a workhouse orphan for sure. He doubted it was the child of the other portrait, for he (if he was a he) looked sickly, and clung to his mother's dress to sit up. Most likely hadn't made it another year.

A small bundle of soldier's photo's would be sure to delight the local WWII monument, and he was pleased to actually see names jotted at the bottom of some fifties era birthday memories; perhaps he could track down any remaining family.

"The stories you could tell me," he murmured softly to the mother and child as he slid them back into their box with care. He popped his neck satisfying as he did so, and checked his watch. The dial read quarter to four in the morning, and Cooper immediately felt the time weigh on his body. It was a testimate to his lifestyle, that a piece of foam on a cold floor could sound so inviting.

He was satisfied enough with the days digging, and one by one he clicked off his lanterns, gathered his empty water bottles and headed downstairs for another nights rest. Within minutes he was asleep, deeply, peacefully, and never even heard the snapping sound of splintering wood 3 stories above him.

)o(

"What in God's name-!"

He found it easily enough in the morning though. He'd gone upstairs with a large cup of coffee (aaah, the blessings of hot water!) and a bagel, intent on sorting out yesterdays junk, only to find the lovely wooden box shattered. Splinters of dyed pine covered the floor, and he nearly jammed a nail up his foot before swerving in time to knock into the dressmakers dummy instead.

He regained his balance, but even after the vertigo passed he couldn't process what he was seeing. The box was demolished; this wasn't just a case of a breeze tipping it over the edge of the trunk…or rather…he didn't think…

Cooper crouched down and picked a larger chunk from the floor and tested it's pliancy. Though of sturdy build, the wood itself was brittle with age. He sighed and dropped the board. It was possible, he supposed…the attic was drafty…so if the wind had picked up while he slept it could have been enough to tip the box, scatter the splinters, the pictures…

The pictures!

Oh, they were there. Scratched and scuffed and strewn to all corners of the attic, but they were there.

"Sonofabitch!" Cooper swore. He picked each print off the floor and gave it a gentle shake to remove the worst of the splinters. He ticked each one off as he collected them. War vet, family...where was the- there it was! He found the birthday party under the dressmakers dummy, along with the handsome blond. The mother and pale toddler had slid across the floor, stopped by a junk box.

Once all were accounted for, Cooper sighed, giving a gentle puff of breath to the family atop the pile in his hands. A gentle cloud of dust rose in a grimy gray puff disappearing seamlessly into the attic haze. Such a pity; these portraits were already so faded with age, sun damage, and the teeth of tiny rodents. A tumble across ragged wood floors was the last thing they needed. A professional, sealed framing is what needed done, something to seal out the moisture. He already had a nice collection of them adorning the walls of his stairways and study. Or rather, would, once he finished those areas. Architectural work was one thing. Now it was painting and papering and covering every flat surface with clocks and bells and ferns.

A bottom drawer in his soon-to-be-bedroom would do nicely to store them until he could properly see to them. He'd be here long enough. Usually he spent at least 6 months in a house after it was complete, to thoroughly enjoy his little project before selling it. Besides, he thought the scents of cooking and laundry were much more homey than the noxious mix of wallpaper paste and carpeting tape that would cling in the air for weeks. A client interested in museum fair might not give a damn, but bed and breakfast folk seemed to prefer Downey to tile putty.

Several undershirts and boxers found a new home in a cupboard to make room for the portraits. As he slid the door back into place, he sighed, knowing a mess awaited him up in the attic. Well…there had been a mess anyway, one comprised of his own flippant tossing of garments, as well as years of spider's toiling in the rafters, and dear Mother Mary knows how many rats had been born into those corners. However, those were always part of the home. Rotted floorboard, outdated wiring, and rodents who'd crawl up to his bed at night all, Hi there, thanks for the Cheeto crumbs. I'm going to go have babies in your beauro now, thanks.

No, it was the shattered box that he wasn't looking forward to sweeping up. Not because it was a drearily laborious task, as it would take only a few minutes to sweep up the splinters. It was more the fact that he had to. He should know better than to leave valuables where they could fall prey to the elements. These items hadn't been moved in God only knew how long. In this attic, with no climate control, they'd been prey to the elements, summer's heat and humidity. They needed to be treated with better care. The box may have been plain, but still. A pound was a pound was a dollar, damn it! He needed to pay bills somehow, and fixing these houses wasn't cheap. They paid off, several times over, in the long run, but he didn't feel like living off instant noodles till then. Not again.

In actuality, a day cleaning the attic turned out to be quite relaxing. He swept up the largest of the splinters first, ones large enough to ram up a shoe if he were to be so unlucky (and several stitches on the most unlikely of locations proved he often was.) However, that was as far as he got before he just couldn't help himself. That lovely old music machine seemed to be in such lovely condition. He just had to have a closer look.

Oh it wasn't a true Victorian model; he never even thought that to be a possibility, but it was an early 1900's model. 20's, maybe. Not his area of expertise.

He looked about the attic, and the slew of socks and linens and piles of dust that filled every crack, then back to the phonograph. He knew he should work on the attic. He could all but hear his mother's voice screeching at him to clean his room before he even thought about going out to play.

…Well. Good thing he was a big boy now, and Mommsy was a thousand miles away in Nebraska. And off he went merrily, to forage for Q tips.

)o(

Oh the racket that came tumbling out of the attic was something he could scarcely call music. At least, not by his own tastes, and he was a gentleman of high breeding. Well, theoretically. He was sure genetics and upbringing had a far greater weight on one's palette than whether or not one's father allowed him his last name. He'd been immersed in culture, attended the opera, the symphony, the orchestra even, and knew truly good music. What this visitor was playing, however, was not to his liking. The wavering voice that crooned from the player's bell hit surrounded him with a foreign twang, not pleasant at all.

He wished he could cover his ears and turn away, but the thick, dusty air of the attic steps seemed to hold him within its sticky, murky arms. No air seemed to gust through, no drafts. So there he was, stuck listening to a very pompous, upbeat sounding woman croon something about her boy overseas. Well. He'd go over seas too, if it was to escape a lady who sounded like THAT. He didn't care much for women in the best of times, let alone one's who couldn't demurely keep their mouths closed, thank you.

However, his room mate seemed to be quite enamored with the tune. Or at least, with the phonograph playing it. What a queer model; no cylinder that he could see. Just a charcoal black disc turning scratchily along a table.

He was all but sulking in that narrow passage, where he'd been for quite some time. Through the open doorway, he could see that man idle away his entire afternoon on that thing. He'd left for quite some time, only to return with a veritable arsenal of cotton wipes and astringents and sharpened dowels. All, it seemed, with the purpose of shining the player back up to a working order. He'd almost prefer him going back to that loud, thumping drumset he seemed so fond of.

Still, he found it difficult to really be too peeved. His sheer fascination with his guest buffered his horrid taste in music. Even when shuffling along humiliatingly with a tailor's maniquin, he couldn't bare to look away. He was almost glad the breezes of early evening hadn't ferried him away to more quiet corners of his house, where he'd have only bug carcasses for company. He wasn't much for socializing, but one really did grow weary of staring at locust shells for hours.

Besides, he would probably be fading before long. A good long rest.

Before him, the man was shuffling through a deep box, one far too clean to be from these attics. He'd seen him carry it in from before, when he'd arrived from wherever he'd spent his day. More of those large black saucers, some covered in big, colorful wrappings. One by one he took them from the box, gave them a quick examination, and rejected each based on some merit unseen to his own eyes. He was rather surprised when he finally hopped from the floor and removed the long arm from the disc, only to replace it with this new one.

He cringed from his darkly shadowed waiting place, ready for more of the former drudgery to continue. Instead, as the bell hissed with dead air, he found he'd been awaiting not another trumpet-laden patriotic theme, but rather a march of strings all but thrusting from the brass, tapering off into a softer melody. He could all but see the musicians bows darting across their instruments like humming birds. This, this was familiar to him, something much more suiting.

"Carl Nielson," he heard the man read from the back panel of a slipcover. Something tugged the back of his mind. Ah, yes. He recalled hearing this symphony before. For a moment, the walls of the staircase seemed to turn to richly strewn red velvet. He could almost smell the hot, heady fumes of the gas lamps…but quick as the wavering mirage had come to his mind, so it was rushed away like the tides.

The visiting man seemed to enjoy the welling tune as much as he did. Good. Perhaps his preferences of music might improve.

)o(

Cooper spent another evening cleaning, trying to get the attic in working order, though it wasn't a high priority. He'd surely be using it again for storage as he decorated the place. However, having things in some semblance of order set his mind at ease. Besides, cleaning was pleasant enough with a lovely orchestra in the background. His own personal collection was a hodgepodge of decades, but nice enough to listen to. He couldn't believe that thing actually worked…quality was crap, but had a fair sort of charm to it. He didn't take the arm from the turntable until late, where he decided to finally take ten minutes to call back home.

He didn't much like this. Oh he loved his mom, he did, but she was a little…well…

)o(

His calling card rapped against the floorboards, and his eyes wandered skywards wearily as he listened to his mother rattle on. Whatever it was was 6 pounds and took 14 hours, so either he had a new nephew or his aunt was back to her Amish bread baking phase.

"Yes mom…yeah…yeah I'm eating. Oh yeah, course. Very healthy. Plenty of fruits and veggies." To prove his point, he took a relishing bite of his quick-stop taco, a glob of sour cream and hot sauce snaking down his lip. "Crunching? No, that was a carrot stick, mom."

His dear mom couldn't be convinced that he was 38 and was not going to keep growing big and strong if he ate all his peas. Just like he couldn't convince her that no, mom, my living in Europe is not going to make me nobility, metrosexual or develop a taste for crumpets. He didn't even know what a crumpet was.

He let her carry on about the importance of eating well at his age, as he added another sour cream packet to his chicken taco.

He wandered as he ate, never one to be able to sit and chat, not over the phone at least. He wandered across the second floor, tidying up the largest plaster pieces by towing them into a pile to sweep up later.

He'd just crunched into another bite of greasy poultry bliss when a thrumming melody reached him from the stairway, and he dropped his pseudo-Mexican meal in shock.

"Will? William?" came the tinny voice of his mother, courtesy of phone card quality audio.

Cooper plucked the phone from the floor.

"Uh, Mom, I'll call ya right back…" he murmured, and clicked off the connection, filling his hand with a heavy flashlight instead. He really needed to invest in a baseball bat, if bastard children were going to be bursting into his house.

Oooh yes, he'd dealt with this before. He knew it the minute Carl Neilson's violins can rampaging from the attic. Not very loud, truthfully, with a player so old, but noises carried well in empty old houses.

"God damn kids," he muttered. He put up with pranks with every house, and the more lore around them, the worse it was. Oooh Halloween would be hell here.

He followed the scratchy record up to the attic, right where he knew it would be.

"Alright you brats, get your asses out here. I don't scare easy, but I'm sure you would as soon as I call the cops." His voice easily overpowered the music, even as he opened the attic door.

There was the phonograph, just as he'd left it, with the switch on and the record turning, filling the air with a late Victorian symphony.

But no children to be seen.

Wary of a teenagers lack of boundaries, he closed the door behind him carefully, and swept his flashlight through the attic, listening for laughter, the chortles of a prank well played, but heard nothing but a cello.

Cooper sighed, and went to switch the record player off, and sweep the arm aside.

Inch by inch he prowled the attic, beating every box with his flashlight in hopes of startling any hiding children out into the open. However, all he managed to scare up were dust bunnies and moths, neither of which he could guess had much to do with the music. Atop of that, the windows to the attic were all still securely boarded up, meaning the only way in or out was through the narrow stairs behind him.

"Anyone who was here would be long gone.." he reasoned with himself, but he knew better. He wouldn't be able to rest until he searched under every rub in this house. He doubted the offender could flatten themselves to a slip of paper, but hey. He'd seen too many sci fi movies as a kid.

Nothing. Top to bottom, even down to the freezing basement, there was no sign of anyone. The only thing out of place was his poor chicken taco, a casualty of this war. And it was a good taco too.

Ah well. All he could do was double check the locks on his doors, and hope he could scrub the spicy red bloodstain off his wood floor in the morning.

Cooper went around to check his locks one more time, brushed his teeth, and crawled into…mattress, promising to finally assemble furniture tomorrow. Beds were nice, if he remembered correctly.

)o(

A quiet gust of air outside his windows was all the sound that filled the house for most of the night. Past the earliest hours of morning's life, still shrouded in pitch darkness, not even Cooper's own sleep breathing rustled the still air.

But the phonograph did.

So softly the music poured through the house, soaking first the attic in it's enticing violins, letting the wavering strings ripple in waves down the stairs and seem through the floorboard, to drip and tickle against Cooper's ears. So quiet was the antique appliance that when he sat himself up in bedand blearily reached for his flashlight, he was aware first of the cold chill of the house, and only second of Carl Nielson's first symphony echoing through the home's empty, cavernous rooms.

Once he did, though, his skin felt all the more chilled. He locked the doors, he knew he did. He checked them like he was being paid for it. Windows too; those with glass were locked soundly, and those without were fixed with plywood. Surely he would have heard someone tearing down giant sheets of dead tree. Or picking his lock. Mr Nielson's composition surely couldn't be loud enough to stifle that, as well as someone creaking up those steps.

A hammer was his companion that night, the hand me down from his mother with the glittery handle. A sparkly death awaited whoever was prowling around his attic, if they didn't get the hell out.

He crept along the walls, his feet practically falling over themselves as he sidled on the most sturdy boards of the floor. Hugging corners and doorways, he almost felt as though Mission Impossible should be playing, and not a classic diddy from a long dead Victorian.

He wondered if the person upstairs could hear his heart pounding over the cello.

Each step threatened to cry beneath his weight, and give away his position. Oh Cooper knew he'd made a dreadful spy, and though he couldn't really care about how well he's excel in a mostly fiction profession, it was sheer sleuthing that might keep the mild mannered history professor alive tonight. Anyone who could slip in so silently had to know what they were doing, and houses like these sometimes drew in the crazies.

Hammer brandished, glinting as maliciously as a 90's relic could, he threw open the attic door.

There was no man in a white mask waiting for him. No chainsaws whirred in his face, and he felt no need to put the lotion in the basket.

All that met him in that attic was a Victor phonograph, scratchily spinning away at a record far older than he was.

The wind…he finally reasoned, noting the draft of the night. He'd have thought that the arm would be rusted with age, but he must have been a little too liberal with the oiling.

Sure enough, it took just a brush of a finger to swing the arm back in its place. Must not have clicked it into lock secure enough.

His heart started to settle down, his panic over. He reached down, and unplugged the ancient record player. It probably wasn't safe to leave such an old cord connected anyway.

…but it still couldn't hurt to check the house one more time. Just in case.

Once again, there was nothing. No point of entry. He was relieved, and laughed at himself as he crawled back under his blankets.

"Old houses are getting to ya, Will," he chided himself sofly. He couldn't believe he was letting urban legends spook him.

Sleep claimed him easily, for William Cooper was not one to dwell on childhood fears. The boogey man couldn't live under your bed if you slept on the floor.

)o(

What a bothersome ass. He comes traipsing into his home, pounds away at all hours, attracts a dozen people a week to rip into the walls and plumbing, and then has the audacity to deny him a nice little bit of music! Did he have any idea how much energy it took him just to nudge that spindle? Bastard.

Oh well. He was sound asleep, lulled by his own snoring now. He could hear. And he felt so suddenly awake now, where just moments ago he'd been so weary, ready for that blissful quiet that enveloped him.

The next morning, Cooper would wake to find the arm spinning silently on the etching-free rim of the record, a sure sign that it had played itself through once again as he slept. And in the shadows behind him, Jizabel smiled. He liked that song.

)o(


End file.
